Eyes of the Tiger
by Aine Deande
Summary: Dr Lecter partakes in a little voyeurism. Features the sight of running, the feel of too-tight boots, the naked sound of discovery, the scent of honey and the sweet taste of curses lifted and hearts bound, to each other. ***COMPLETE***
1. Eyes of the Tiger: Part 1

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~* Eye of the Tiger *~

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By Starlit Skye

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Summary: A POV voyeurism tale of Dr Lecter watching his warrior and making the transformation from beholder to partaker of their very own love story. Follows book canon from the run in the woods, to Mason's, to the evening the teacup came together and the circle was made round, and Clarice Starling found her destiny with him.

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Rating: PG-13, except for the last chapter, which is something between PG-13 and R, as it features implication to sexuality.

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Disclaimer: all characters herein are property of the Master himself, Thomas Harris. I do not owe these characters and their names are used herein with the utmost respect, admiration, and love. Some lines are inspired by Dante's Divine Comedy, again, with the utmost respect and appreciation. No copyright infringement is intended. Also, whatever copyright law is attached to the title of this piece, which I was informed of is also the name of a song, I do not owe these rights and so this title is used merely for the suitability of it. And, finally, one part of a sentence herein is also the title of a book and movie called Snow falling on cedars'.

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Part: 1 of 5 (completed). Over the upcoming few days I will be posting the following four parts. This was not an easy story to write, as this truly is unvisited territory for me. Reviews, comments, criticism of any kind would be greatly welcomed and appreciated.

Thank you.

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Quote: _His stare is liquid, _

Silver droplets on my tongue

Wind collided upon us

We are free.

Source: Me, hehe.

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I watched her.

I watched her then, running through the wood, my Clarice, wet with sweat, drenched with stiff determination and bitter anguish. Her glorious hair tied up in a ponytail, so subtly portraying with this the innocence still lingering within her. The immovability I find so enchanting in her. Backlit by the sunlight, I watched her from the shadows, my nostrils flaring at the sight of her, as she became the deer to run throughout my mind and memory palace . . . pleasant, pleasant mind play on my old child trauma.

She runs, unaware of my proximity, perhaps even blissfully unaware of my intrusion. I know what she's running from. I have always known. Perhaps _she _even knew, when she stood outside my cell at Baltimore for the first time, wishing, looking into me and hoping, somehow, I could help her through.

She runs from her incubi, from her enemies, though they are in places she does not look, yet. I will make her see. It is my job to look after her. I could not look after my sister, true. But I can look after little Starling, instead.

Poor little Starling. Blissfully unaware of her immovability, indeed. Indeed unaware of who are holding her back, truly, in this world that seems to so unrightfully attack her. Oh, she should have advanced so very long ago. But who does she think is holding her back? Is anyone but herself, truly now? I know. But she will never come to me to ask. 

She knows there lies truth in what I say, in my words to her, but it is the stubbornness in her that keeps her from coming to me for help. That is the reason I will have to come to her, instead.

My beautiful Clarice. She cries through her perspiration, she does. Not knowing, of course. She never knows. Ominously oblivious of her own heart's desires, this one is. Her tears are the beads of sweat dripping down her forehead, onto her cheeks and neck, into her shirt . . . She forces herself on, run on, always, until she can run no more. 

And she will never stop chasing what she thinks belongs to her. Oblivious as she is to what she really wants. Always chasing the wrong dream, the remaining forthcoming promotion, the advancement I sensed long before was so important to her. Foolish Clarice. If she will ever open up her eyes and see the truth for what it is, I don't know. But until then I will watch her.

Watch her as she runs on, forever on to the future, to the ever-extending horizon. She is like a child, reaching with both hands for the stars. Like a young girl wants the moon for herself, Clarice wants what she deserves, what she has been striving for since her father's death. To make dead daddy proud, silence her lambs. Advancement. But she is looking for it in a dead-end street. Ever reaching for what she can never have, will never have, and still she reaches. 

My poor, helpless Clarice. Let me open up your eyes for you, my love. I'm sure I could do it. If just given the time and patience, and no interference from intruding police officers, so-called FBI superiors, then, maybe.

Maybe. But I am thoroughly satisfied just watching her. I watched her long after she had departed my reach of vision. She is so beautiful when she runs, away from her demons. Free at last. If only for just a moment in time. 

I find myself craving that freedom. Even now, outside of the cage they kept me in for eight long years, I still find myself not _completely _free. And perhaps this hauntingly beautiful individual, this incredibly stubborn, foolishly hard-headed, ever incorruptible human being has a little something to do with this. But I do not mind. I do not mind this new cage surrounding my heart, inside.

She will free me one day. I know she will, as I will free her. It is in our very blood. We are destined to one another.

She is my curse and my shadow, as I am hers forevermore. 

I watched her until she was far from me, and then I rose. And I knew I was not yet free to leave. As I never would be, as long as she would not be with me. But oh, well. In time. All in good time, as they say. And I remember a certain person I think very highly of, saying one day to another that all good things come to those who wait. I will wait. And then, perhaps, I will prevail.

Goodbye for now, my Clarice. Let the morning sunshine awaken your stiffened limbs while you sleep in your chair after your long, long run. I know you will be there, and I know what you'll dream of. I just hope they will not scream too loudly this time. I do hope, the exhaustion from your trip will have granted you some peace of mind to last through the merciless night. Let us hope so. After all, I have my own demons haunting me.

Yes. Mischa.

Yes. Clarice.

~*~*~*~

To be continued very, very shortly.


	2. Eyes of the Tiger: Part 2

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Summary: See first chapter.

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Rating: Still PG-13 for now.

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Disclaimer: Again, see first chapter.

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Part: 2 of 4. Slight miscalculation on my part: there will be four instead of five chapters to this story. Do forgive me *hangs head in shame*. My genuine thanks to all who have reviewed, Hanniballover1181, DarkShadow, Arachniphiliac and Luna — you've all made my day!!! I hope that I've managed to make this second as enjoyable for you, and that you won't be disappointed. Also, I pray I'm somewhat doing a good job of portraying Dr Lecter's POV that is always a difficult thing. Thank you all.

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I heard her.

I heard her then, when she came to me, went around the forklift to face me, face me as I was nailed to my very own cross. The reference to Jesus on his must not have missed her, and when I called her a true Protestant she did not even flinch. Clever girl. Then of course, that is why she is _my _girl.

I heard her breathe heavily, of fear, not for what might happen to her though, but for what might happen to _me_. This new perspective surprised me, and her, and I think the realization of this might have gotten her a bit off guard for a moment. 

As it was, she did not react fast enough to my revelation there should be three men down on the ground. For Peter's sake, she had neglected to shoot down another one and now this man had shot her. I could see it all happening from where I was standing, her limbs stiffening immediately to the awareness of a foreign object hitting her bone. 

Then she spun, as the dizziness overtook her, and I could see her eyes glazing over. She reached to her side even as her knees gave in to the medicine and I saw her going down, face down, Clarice down, down.

To describe the emotion to rush through my veins when I saw Clarice fall to the ground as glory would be to understate it. Surely I could have done her no harm myself, wouldn't have done her any harm. But for another person to do so, an enemy nonetheless, was the perfect non-Christmas present anyone could have ever presented to me. Now I could take her, take her with me without anyone minding including Clarice, and we would both be free in the moment. What an utter delight. I had her now. _Yes_.

I lifted her into my arms and then . . .

I felt her.

I felt her body against me, and it startled me. It truly startled me in a way I could not have foreseen, even had I been expecting this reaction to her closeness. I could feel the long locks of her hair brushing against my upper arm, lower arm, my side, my chest, and she was so very near for a moment it took the breath out of my body. I couldn't breathe.

I sensed her every body part against mine like it burned where we touched, where we connected, as it had burned in Memphis. When our fingers had touched — or rather, when _my _forefinger had brushed over _hers _while she was in a hurry to get the paper from me — the electricity had struck the first time. A fire, an inferno so black and white-hot had rushed through me, so suddenly gone and yet still burning afterwards in the every ending nerve of my body. And for seven years, I would not feel that fire again. Until now.

Now, it was threatening to eat me whole, and to keep me from pressing my lips onto her flesh that was now so evidently exposed to me was a hard, struggling task, by far harder than anything else about the escape plan. The pigs let me through, they did not smell any fear. The security guards let the Mustang through as I drove off into the night with Clarice in the passenger's seat. But the hurricane of passion within me was raging throughout. 

And it may have been foolish, but the mere knowledge I was wearing the boots that were hers, that had fitted around those small feet of hers and were now holding my feet in them like in a fist so tight, it enticed me so I could still hardly draw breath.

What a woman can do to a man's soul. Truly disheartening, my lapse of inner order was. And she wasn't even _awake _yet.

I felt her near me, even more than I had felt her when she was actually _against _me. Perhaps it was the knowledge she was now close enough to touch, to hold, to _have,_ that I couldn't stand. I truly couldn't *stand*it. My hands were trembling and my face perspiring and I felt as though I was better off running, too. But I couldn't leave her.

Leave her now, _my _lamb, _my _girl, when she needed me the most? Never. Never now, never ever in any future imaginable. She needed me now, as the drugs were overtaking her system, and I had to make sure she would make it through the attacks of fever she would undoubtedly start to have in the next upcoming hours and days. 

I had to help her. She had come to save me, even if she failed to do so completely, and the very least I could do was return the favor.

Of course, this is what I _told _myself was the reason. But if I could have stood being separated from her now . . . I don't know. 

It seems these days I don't know a thing anymore. Love is a confusing thing, really. It takes all ground from under you, and even if you think what you are doing is right there is always the lingering doubt that you aren't. I wondered, even then, if Clarice Starling even wanted my saving her, ever wanted my interference in her life, and the stab of mad guilt to overtake me in a matter of moments when thinking of such matters still frightens me.

Love is a frightening thing, as well.

The drift of light on her facial features was delightful to look at, but I had to keep my eyes on the traffic. But the road ahead of me seemed much less important than the woman laying unconscious next to me, the woman who had been my path and guidance through everything ever since we met. She led me everywhere. She led me home.

Now, I wanted to lead her back to her world, my world, and perhaps, let her stay. Out of her own free will, of course, or so I told myself. Under all and every circumstance I wanted to believe I was still worthy of the term gentleman'. The necessity of drugging my Clarice was evident: it had to be done. It was necessary to keep giving her the antidotes for the drug overtaking her body.

But when I continued to give her the medication long after the fever had gone down and the shaking of her limbs had stopped, I knew I was busy planning the next phase in the destiny following the crossing of our paths. I knew I wanted her to stay. I also knew now was the chance to rid her of her demons. Her father, namely, and with that her lambs. 

I also wanted to keep her with me. 

But it would be a long road before I would admit this to myself, or her, or God above, who seemed to be enjoying this game of hide-and-seek I was doing with my heart now, as she had been doing before, far too much. Soulmates. Bah. Clarice and I, we are too much alike for our own good. But maybe our conjoined curses can grant us relief. Maybe.

Maybe even peace.

But I wouldn't know yet. I am not by far ready yet. Ready to be released. Ready to come home to peace of the heart, of the mind, of the soul. And I know she could grant me this. She might even know I could grant her hers. Yes. Soulmates indeed, however foolish the term sounds to me at this time. But all will prevail in us in good, honest time.

For time will make the both of us ready.

~*~*~*~

TO BE CONTINUED *** soon ***


	3. Eyes of the Tiger: Part 3

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Part: 3 of 4. Sorry they're all so short. :(

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Rating: This is the chapter where I had my doubts. Nothing is described (sorry people), but it's pretty obvious still what is going on. And because of ff.net's new rules on NC-17 fics this *definitely* isn't NC-17, but one might perceive it as more than PG-13. So, just to be on the safe side, this one chapter is R. Though, I tell you again, not a graphic scene in sight. Thanks again to all who reviewed. You guys are wonderful. :)

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I smelled her.

I smelled her then, coming up behind me, even though her treads were as light as snow falling on cedars. And in the moment I turned to her and my breath was caught in my throat, I knew it was to be like this. Like this, forever. Even if I saw her every day whole I'd remember this time, and it was not because of the lovely gown she'd put on, the one I'd searched out for her, or the matching cabochons that shone in the firelight.

It was because she'd come to _me_, willingly, and was standing there smiling, expectant, expecting as much from tonight as I had, and still did. 

It was the knowledge of this that stopped my breath and the playing of the harpsichord with my already trembling hands. It was this knowledge that made me get up from my chair and near her, and with that, take the first step in the dawning spell of the long, memorable night to come.

And it was this knowledge, that wasn't knowledge, but fear, for my sanity, odd as it may sound, when Clarice put her hand in her dress and freed her breast, quickly peaky in the open air, and realized my desire with a single drop of Château d'Yquem from her mouth.

A coral pearl to shiver with the fire, and without conscious thought I came to claim my fortune.

I love these breasts . . . Beautifully round and her nipples are like rose buttons rising from the ground, and in her case, a clear battlefield. For though her body in the heart area was free of any visible scars or damaged tissue, I knew her heart had not been untouched by evil havoc. But I was to devour her, and take all hurting away, and this task proved easy for me, natural, as though I had always known. Always known, this day would come, and that she would be mine. 

And of course, I _had_ known. But how sweet it would be . . . I had not.

From the moment she bared her single breast, every movement, every touch, but also every stillness simply flowed in time, rocking to its own slow rhythm like an old mother sung lullaby. I was inevitably lost, and never before had loss seemed so very sweet.

For a minute my eyes slid up her form to her face, and how she stood there was perfection. Her neck taut, head jilted to one side like that of a bird, and her lips slightly parted to form sort of an o'. 

Through this opening she took breath in and let it out again, and in its natural flow my craving for her switched locations. From her breast I now wanted her breath, only her breath. It was the single rationality in my incoherent thoughts in the fervor of the jeweled moment, for this time with Clarice — _Clarice _— rocked me harshly, to the very bounds of my authority. I knew only I wanted her breath, and then her lips, and then her tongue, and taste, and saliva, and glory, and want overtook all other.

One single lasting moment of freedom, gone, gone and then she was mine. Heart, body and soul. But the reverse of this exchange was that I had to relinquish power, too. Yet my calculating mind did not even register the loss. The stakes had been high, but the prize well deserved and long, long overdue.

I tasted her.

I tasted her then, that endless moment of bending, bending to her coral and her cream, her essence, oh, glorious, glorious woman, glorious Clarice. 

I tasted her wholly, and she was so very glorious she did not even *take* my breath from me, she *was* my breath. The very reason for breathing, for being. I could not picture any other time when I had not been bending to the wine drop quivering on her exposed, erect breast. 

It was nectar, it was honey, _she _was nectar, _she _was my honey. The honey in the lion. The silver _in _the iron. My heavenly creature, my Clarice, I had her now and it was so magnificent . . .

It was glory in itself.

I always thought that when I would finally have her, violins would start to play as on cue and I'd hear an aria, any aria, from the opera as the music to the conjoining of our spirits but no. No such thing.

Instead, as I held her then, the silence was my theater and her body the instrument I played that brought heaven down to earth and into this very room, into her. In this silence, this blessed silence of the lambs and my dead sister's screams laid her final redemption, and mine. Now that I held her, the stirring world within us was finally still. We had been forgiven and this was our prize, the utter compensation . . . peace.

The beating of her heart reverberated in the breast I held cupped, and the breaths she drew and released in her own ample rhythm, like the tide, was my only melody. And it was enough to make me lose all control, all of it.

I reached down,

down undiscovered territory,

down, down, down . . .

And then I held her.

I held her warm, held her sweet while I tasted of her fluid and my fingers flooded with her sweetness. And then time revolved and earth was reduced to just this moving of my fingers inside of her. And my utter being was filled with a desire like burning, of want that was more than wanting, of that sweet delicacy that was her and her so through.

She was pure ecstasy. I couldn't get enough of her. That perpetual night I took and I took from her and she begged, screamed, cried for more. My taking was her giving and our lovemaking was its own completion.

I have laid my burning heart into the very hands of Love and let her eat it, this trembling lady beneath my fingers, my Beatrice. Oh, how glorious a thing love is. Glorious like a winter sunset. Chilton was right about that one thing. I know again. And I know now, with certainty, how very much her breath has become my own.

Glory in the footsteps of tomorrow. I am complete. I am she. I am free.

~*~*~*~

Last bit to follow in a day or two.


	4. Eyes of the Tiger: Part 4

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A/N: Well, this is the last part of this little tale. Thank you all so much for reviewing and reading this far. It means the world to me. 

As you'll notice now, Dr Lecter had been viewing the process of Clarice Starling coming to him through simple past, while this is again written in present tense. Also, he used the five senses to determine his feelings for her. And he does the same here. I hope it has the same calming, reassuring feel as I tried to bring to it, now that the star-crossed lovers have finally found their way to each other. This has been a pleasure. Thank you.

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I watch her.

I watch her now, her hair upon my pillow, her hand upon my chest, her frame against my side. Clarice . . . I have you now, and even now I cannot grasp with any of the tools given to me by birth or life what has just transpired between us. Maybe it isn't meant for us to know the truth about love. For that is certainly what I feel for her. And so, so much more.

I wasn't too sure if I'd awake, she would still lay beside me. I could hardly believe this dream I'd dreamt for seven long years could, and would finally last *beyond* the morning light. 

But here she is. Here she is, my Clarice, and she is with me out of her own free will. Out of the will of her own freed heart. _Here_.

I see the curvature of her breast, how it rises and falls with the in- and outtake of her breath. So serene, so calm, so at ease. At peace. This woman hears no screaming lambs. These cheeks are flustered, but not from fear for some imaginary incubi. I fiercely hope I have chased them all away. If just for one night . . . and one night at a time.

Love. I did not see it at first, see its face in Clarice Starling, or see it in my own reflection. It takes other eyes, eyes that look inward, to see what is in the heart. I was blinded but now I'm free as well. Now I see. And what I see is Clarice. Only Clarice. Sleeping and sighing and mine. All mine.

I hear her.

I hear her now, as her breath is calm and even, as the satin sheets murmur softly against her skin, as I did this night. I was one former day jealous of how these sheets enveloped her: now, I do not need to think of such thing anymore.

She breathes for me now and I breathe for her and it shall be like this until one is one and life is one breath, its last. Forever is merely the measure of an extent of time, which reaches far beyond the boundaries of human conceivability. 

Yet, as time stills for me this moment — for _us _— the possibility of happily every after seems not as utterly wishful thinking as might have once been the case.

I have faith now. She gave me back my faith, in life, in love, in everything. What more could she give me? What more could she do for me but just . . . breathe. Breathe, while her heart beats in time with mine.

I feel her.

I feel her now, so very close, and my nightly demons are far from my mind. My arms are open and wide to her. Clarice fell in them earlier this night with a sigh of contentment and the words: "Peace, Hannibal. I know tonight I will sleep." And she was right, I knew. I felt it too. 

I smell her.

I smell her now, the aroma of love-made sweat damping on her skin. These are not tears. And if they are, they were born from joy and shed of happiness. I cannot hate these tears. I drink from them with tongue all wanting and eyes all-seeing as I see the fresh, silver pearls upon her skin blink in the early skylight. She is beautiful. She is mine. She is free.

Freedom. 

Freedom is in the heart, I believe they say. And I am no different from other people. I breathe the same air. I see the same sun. I behold the same stars.

. . . my stars and her stars. Perhaps the world is a tender place after all. I doubt nothing now, here, drifting in timelessness. I doubt only the world to exist beyond this moment, this room, this night. I do not care. I have my own world, and her name is Clarice.

Freedom. If hate is a poison and love is its blade, then freedom is its cure. Two unruly emotions, polar opposites but only closely removed, lift the curse and in return, freedom is given. The treasure of every life. 

Who would have known, all those years ago, what Clarice M. Starling would begin to mean to me, and how, like Dante, I myself found in the very sight of her, nourishment to last me dreamless nights, free from the screaming or the sound of the axe coming down. As hers, my nightly demons are also silent.

Perhaps now, they always will be.

And I taste her.

I taste her now, the sheer nectar that is her through and through and of which I will drink day in and day out, of which I cannot get enough. She fulfills me every rising and setting sun again, for she is my sun, the light cast upon my earth and mere life-form, and I love her for the way she makes me feel. I wish I could taste her radiance, wish I could cup it in my mouth, ravish it with my tongue, relish it, cherish and glorify her perfection. 

Taste the honey in my delicious lion, Clarice. Clarice. Merely the name a statement of supremacy. Her mother must have known with her chambermaid eyes what a treasure she had brought into the world. I wonder if old Jackie boy Crawford saw it when he sent her to me, sent me my treasure, and hereby crafted my doom and destiny all the same.

Clarice. I watch her now. And even by just watching her, her presence fulfills me completely.

Clarice. My curse, and my shadow. I do not wish to be strong any longer without you, my dearest. I only wish to be strong together.

I am free now. Free, finally. At long, long last. Rapt in happiness.

I have come home to freedom of the soul.

And I am happy.

— FIN —


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